


Our Stranger

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Author's Favorites [8]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, challenges: X-Files Lyric Wheel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-02
Updated: 2010-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-07 16:32:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small town is only a good place to hide if they like you. This is a small town's take on one of the XF character's attempts to hole up and lick his wound. Yes, I'm avoiding his name on purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: Not mine, drat it. Still have a bid in for the Rat -- why not? CC isn't using him, that's sure. (With apologies to every slasher who just went 'ewww!' at that thought....) Actually, only one character in here belongs to Chris Carter/1013 Productions. The rest are mine. Spoilers for everything 'til Scully gets pregnant. We veered off just before the hospital scene at close of 7th season.  
> Rated: G, believe it or not.

He's quiet, our stranger, with the strained, tight silence of a dog that's been kicked for every bark from 'hey, you're not supposed to be in here' to 'hello.' Fine lines rest around his mouth and eyes, invisible until strain pulls them tight -- and then our dark-haired stranger is no longer young. God help us, he's no longer strange, either.

We've seen his eyes before, some of us. In our mirrors, the morning after a night that held too little sleep and too many hours of a screaming child (teething, ear aches, nightmares... does it matter now?) or aching bones (from fever, from a husband staggered home drunk and disorderly and not tired enough, damn it) or more grief than a woman can close eyes against. We know that pain when we see it. Know that fear when we see it, even hidden under the silences he uses to guard himself. And the wariness in crowds, in tight places, under falling shadows... we know that, too, and wonder what happened that he learned it.

We don't ask. It's not done, somehow. Leave him what dignity he's managed to salvage. It's all some of us have in the morning.

It's a small town, though, and everybody knows everybody's business. Except for his. He comes in maybe twice a week. Supposedly for groceries and supplies that anyone might buy -- a few two by fours and nails, or shingles and roofing tar, paper for a printer -- but more for the company, I'd say. He doesn't talk, our stranger, but he does listen, silent in the lee of the door or the comfort of a shadow he's picked, one that hasn't loomed over him unexpectedly. Listens to discussions of the weather and the sheer aggravation of a small farmer getting loans as if they're fascinating, or maybe just a language he barely knew existed. Gossip about people, now, bores him -- his eyes shift, lose focus, slide into memories clearly more interesting than tawdry, small town scandals -- but all the small details of daily living are another matter.

He's living on the old Hall place outside town. The old man couldn't keep up with the place the last few years, and it went for property taxes, just about. Our stranger doesn't really farm by local standards -- some flower seed scattered into plots near the road, but no garden. He keeps the area around his house clear of anything but grass until you get to the orchards. He's been clearing the deadwood from that, though. Fertilizing the walnut trees, and the peach trees, and the cherry trees. Running rose bushes and a rail fence between him and the orchard. Beautiful things already, white and red and yellow, pink and coral and lavender, pouring their scent to the state highway on the hot days of slow breezes.

Ann Mulgrew's a little nosy, like all of us, but she's a good woman who hates seeing a place go to rack and ruin. Can't say it surprised me when she told me she'd stopped by and showed him what to prune, and how, and why, and when. Said he didn't say much, but he listened well. It shows. That orchard hasn't looked that good in years. He's been putting in apple trees, too, and pear. There's an easy slope up from the highway to the old Hall place, and the old man always meant to clear some waterways next to the drive to keep it from washing out, but never did. Our stranger did it that first fall, slow hours with a shovel as if he was getting his strength back. Maybe he was. It looks nice now, though. He looks better too. Hair lightened a bit by the sun, some muscle put on from the work around the place.

He took Micah Ruby's advice and dug a retaining pool on either side of the driveway, slanted to pour off to the waterways on either side of his property. Lined them in clay to hold water in the summer, and give him a little cooler breeze in July and August. Planted willows around them, too. Not sure why, but they'll be lovely in years to come and that might be reason enough. Or maybe he just likes willows.

We asked him what he was going to do with the fruit this summer, and the nuts this fall. Janie Martin and her husband make some of their frivolous money shelling nuts for sale by the road, after all, and with the Hall orchard producing again, who can blame 'em for asking. He didn't smile, quite, but something made it to his eyes and voice that hadn't entirely made it to his lips when he said he hadn't planned on doing anything with them. Leaving them for the birds, he said, what he didn't pick for himself, or the local kids didn't beat him to. Told Janie and Ed to feel free to pick what they liked, just leave him some, please. They'll leave him five pound bags of shelled nuts, knowing them. Ann dropped off six half-pint jars of apple butter for him. Come fall, he'll probably find the occasional neighbor dropping by with some ducks, or a couple pounds of ground venison, or just a plate of rabbit tamales.

He's quiet, our stranger, but he's our stranger. Let him live here in as much peace as he can find. He's not hurting us. Maybe one day he'll quit hurting himself.

Wonder what he'd think if he knew the preacher added him to the weekly prayer last week, 'for those who are sick and afflicted and in need of loving grace?' Somehow I don't think Jeff believes in God.

I could be wrong, though.  


  
_~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~_

 

Comments, Commentary, &amp; Miscellanea:

  
Written for the Red Shirt X-Files Lyric Wheel, where the story had to be from the point of view of a minor character or OC. Many thanks to Pollyanna for the assortment of inspirational poetry.

Loosely structured from

> Swineherd, by Eilean ni Chuilleanain
> 
> When all this is over, said the swineherd,  
>  I mean to retire, where  
>  Nobody will have heard about my special skills  
>  And conversation is mainly about the weather.
> 
> I intend to learn how to make coffee, at least as well  
>  As the Portuguese lay-sister in the kitchen  
>  And polish the brass fenders every day.  
>  I want to lie awake at night  
>  Listening to cream crawling to the top of the jug  
>  And the water lying soft in the cistern.
> 
> I want to see an orchard where the trees grow in straight lines  
>  And the yellow fox finds shelter between the navy-blue trunks,  
>  Where it gets dark early in summer  
>  And the apple-blossom is allowed to wither on the bough.

 

And no, it's never explicitly stated, but Jeff is Jeffrey Spender. But if you needed to imagine one of the others using that name to hide in a small rural town... feel free.


End file.
